St. Cloud resident Barb Peterson announced yesterday that after sixty-two years of faithful journaling, she has finally used her last journal.

“I started my first journal around age ten,” she reported, a which point she had already been gifted three notebooks sitting unused on her bedroom shelf until her penmanship improved enough to write within the petite ruled lines. Even so, it wasn’t until age twelve that she developed sufficient emotional depth to pen earnest lines about Mike from math class. “By then I’d already outgrown the unicorn notebook I got as a party favor at Beth’s ninth birthday party, but I was committed to leaving no notebook behind.”

She grew increasingly committed to her journaling practice as well. Long-time neighbor Alice Wilson, still living in the house she grew up in, reports that she frequently spotted Barb journaling on a lake-side bench in the early morning. “I had to get up early for track practice, and she was always there, journal in hand.” Alice estimated the notebook would change about every six months. “Hardcover, softcover, ruled, blank pages—I saw it all. It didn’t matter, she just kept writing.”

Unfortunately, Barb’s devotion to journaling was matched by her loved ones’ devotion to expanding her supply of journals. “I got a few for birthday presents, once as a thank you gift, and one to congratulate me for my performance in the school play”—a production of Annie, in which Barb played Daddy Warbucks. “My drama teacher was impressed with my ability to look like a man, even though I maintain I would have been a better Annie. I guess she just wanted to, I don’t know, encourage me or something.” In looping cursive on the journal’s cover: “Reach for your dreams,” alongside a stylized shooting star.

Graduations were by far the worst. Whether from high school, college, or the online certificate program in personal finance Barb took in her early twenties after becoming the victim of credit card fraud, when the credit card company offered her as compensation a course voucher tucked into a slim notebook, cover inscribed with the company’s logo and the words “my personal finance journey”— Barb received multiple journals, often handed over in gift bags, shrouded in tissue paper, with an accompanying card encouraging her to record her thoughts as she embarked on a “new adventure” or “closed “this chapter.” The stack of notebooks increased. Barb just kept writing.

Journal gifts tapered off after Barb stopped throwing herself birthday parties in her late twenties, after several elaborate birthday brunches and one disaster birthday trip to a country music festival where a cute guy with a cowboy hat let her buy him a drink then spent the whole time flirting with Beth. But then the influx for her 30th and 40th birthdays undid the full decade of devoted journaling accomplished up to that point. “At age 38, I actually came really close to using the last journal. It was an exciting time. I’d been writing less frequently, what with child-rearing and not having time to have any of my own feelings, but when I realized I only had two notebooks to go, I picked up the pace. I really thought I would get there.” Things took a dark turn when cubicle-mate Pamela left her job. “She left me a stack of those “free gift notebooks,” you know the kind you get at conferences? She must have found them when she cleaned out her desk. I think she meant it as a nice thing? But it really set me back. I’ve never told her how much it hurt.”

Shortly thereafter Barb turned forty, and actually received several very nice journals, plus one with a black cover, filled with quips about aging and death. “I really hated that one,” Barb confesses. “I didn’t actually get to writing in it until my mid 50s, when I needed a new knee, and honestly, death felt closer than I would have cared to admit.”

When asked whether she ever purchased a journal for herself, Barb gets misty-eyed. After a long pause, during which she retrieves a Kleenex from her pocket and dabs her eyes, she confesses. “I wanted to. A few times, actually. After I got my new knee, I went to Italy, and a journal in a window display was calling my name. Blood-red leather cover, so elegant!” She pauses, choked with emotion, before adding in a regret-tinged whisper, “I very nearly purchased it. Then I remembered I had a stack of notebooks waiting at home, including one with several Bible verses imprinted on the cover. I couldn’t do it. I still wonder if I let my moment pass me by.” She reports spending approximately thirty-two pages journaling about the incident.

Today, however, at age seventy-two, Barb has the last word. She has finally written the last line in the last empty notebook on her shelf. When asked how she closed out a lifetime of journaling, Barb allowed a brief peek at the final page of her ruled, spiral bound notebook, cheery yellow cover. It reads: “It’s been unusually hot. I should pick up a new hose. Will the birdfeeder need more”.

When asked how she plans to celebrate the milestone, Barb replied emphatically that in lieu of flowers, or gifts of any kind, especially journals, donations may be made in her name to the local nature preserve, where Barb now plans to take up birdwatching. “I honestly wanted to look up at the birds so many times before, but I had to keep writing. Now, I’m finally free.”